Trowa was already in his seat by the time the first bell rang and had been for a while.

Arriving early to his first class of the day, history, having chosen an aisle seat toward the back of the room, he had taken out a pen and paper with some intention of writing a letter to his friends to let them know how he was settling in. Yet the minutes passed and he had managed nothing, his pen hovering at attention, his mind wandering to other things—to the future.

Then the bell rang, and students began to trickle in. He sat back and watched them, looking for familiar faces. Quatre's even, though he knew they had different schedules on Fridays.

He recognized Dorothy and Relena Peacecraft as they entered together and went to take their seats across the aisle from him. He heard their chatter dwindle over his shoulder, and then felt a gentle tap. "Excuse me. Don't I know you?"

He looked up at them and smiled. "I'm not sure."

"You went to St. Gabriels with us, didn't you?" asked Relena.

He nodded. "Relena Peacecraft and Dorothy Catalonia. Yes, I remember."

The girls grinned at the recognition. "I thought you looked familiar," said Dorothy. "We were in the fencing club together, weren't we? But . . . I'm sorry. I guess it's been too long, I don't remember your name."

"It started with a 't,' I think," said Relena. "Tro . . ."

"Triton," he told them, offering his hand. "Triton Bloom."

For a moment, he studied their faces, noting the uncertainty there. They must have known the name didn't sound right, but he was confident they wouldn't argue. "Oh, that's right," Relena said and took his hand, and Dorothy nodded in agreement.

"How's life at Ohtori treating you so far, Triton?" she said, flicking her long platinum blond hair over her shoulder and leaning over him. Shifting a little as other students chastised the girls for blocking the aisle. "Finding everything all right?"

"Pretty much."

"Yeah? What do you think of these outrageous uniforms?" With a lecherous grin, Dorothy leaned even closer, her hand resting next to his on the desk, allowing him a nice view of her cleavage.

Their uniforms couldn't have been more different from the shin-length skirts and conservative blouses of St. Gabriels Academy. With short puffy sleeves and pastel colors, they certainly made the two girls look more feminine than they had appeared at their old school. And with their bodies, there was nothing to complain about.

However, their distaste for the costumes was apparent. Trowa couldn't help an amused snort. "Typical guy response," Dorothy said with a wave of dismissal, but she was smiling as well.

"It's been almost three months and she's still sore about it," Relena said.

"And with good reason." Dorothy turned to plead her case to Trowa. "Last year, when we represented our class in the student council, they gave us these beautiful white pantsuits to wear."

"And this year?" Trowa asked.

"We got kicked out."

"That's not true," Relena corrected. "Slanderer. I declined because I felt I needed more time for my studies and Dorothy claims she didn't like the Machiavellian politics—though I thought they were right up her alley." Turning to the other girl, she put her hands on her hips. "Why won't you just admit it was for personal reasons?"

"What reasons?" said Trowa.

Relena rolled her eyes. "Juri Arisugawa."

"Ah." Trowa nodded to himself. That sounded like the Dorothy he remembered. "No luck, huh?"

"It's like I don't even exist." Dorothy let out a long, forlorn, and utterly melodramatic sigh. He had heard that particular sound many times before, in the chatter after fencing practice. She always seemed to pick the coldest target she could—Heero one week, Une the next—always setting herself up for disappointment. He had begun to think that was the whole point. "She said this uniform makes me look like a doll," Dorothy said wistfully, though apparently it was an insult. "And here I thought we had such chemistry on the fencing strip. Maybe she really does like boys."

"Anyway," Relena said, disregarding her friend, "would you like to have lunch with us?"

"Yes, you must," Dorothy joined in, forgetting about her crush. "We have so much to catch up on. You can tell us what's being happening back home. And besides, you seem to remember us just fine, but we need a chance to get reacquainted with you. It's only fair."

That prospect made Trowa incredibly nervous, but he hid it from them with an over-compensating smile. "Do I have a choice?"

Relena matched his smile. "Not really."

"And then I'm taking you to the fencing club meeting after class," Dorothy said. The instructor had arrived and was trying to get everyone settled. "Quatre will be there. I'm sure you remember him. It will be fun. Just like old times."

"I'm looking forward to it," Trowa said, but doubted the two girls heard him as they were already sitting back down in their seats. It was just as well.

It was dark in the music room. The bright sunlight came down through high windows to warm the floor in geometric bars.

But, eyes closed as he played the familiar piece, Quatre could almost imagine the room where he had often practiced at his old school. The great windows thrown open after a summer rain to let in the radiance of sunlight hitting vapor, the smell of wet grass and flowers bent under the onslaught. His hands knew the way as they swept up and down the keys, doucement: tenderly. His fingers felt out the proper chords by rote. But it didn't seem quite right as he played it. It didn't make sense.

Of course, it was only the harmony, missing its other half, the other set of hands that were responsible for completing the song. To compensate in the meantime, on a playful whim, he tried elaborating on his part, running his long, trained fingers fiercely and fluidly over the ivory in a jazzy variation on the theme. The thrill of instant and personal creation made his skin tingle with goosebumps. But it could not change the melancholy inherent in the song. It did nothing to ease the nameless longing it created in his heart, and, if anything, only made it worse.

He brought the piece to an abrupt end; it suddenly seemed to take too much effort to finish it properly.

And as the vibrations died away under his hovering hands, he realized there were no rain clouds in the sky, and that there was another person in the room with him.

He looked up to see Miki had entered, and was staring at him in surprise. "Don't stop on my account," the seventh-grader said softly. "That was beautiful. Sad, for a day like this, but beautiful."

"I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite for playing today," Quatre admitted with a sigh as he stood. He flashed Miki a smile, but there was a forced quality to it. "I just hope my mood isn't contagious. Then again, piano really isn't my forte, and I'm willing to bet prodigies are immune to superstitions like that. You wanted to play, I take it?"

"Oh, right." Miki didn't know quite what to say as he moved toward the piano. He leafed through the sheet music that sat there already while Quatre picked up his violin on the round table and began to play Miki's song: "The Sunlit Garden." Slowly at first, as though encouraging and even daring Miki to play with him. He played brightly, but it was a false brightness, as though Quatre believed he could change his mood, like a chameleon changes its skin, to match the tone of the music. And Miki hesitated for a few long minutes, feeling tugged by indecision, before he could stand it no longer—before he could postpone what he had come for no longer.

As Miki shut the lid over the keyboard, Quatre let his instrument drop from his shoulder. "What's wrong?" he began when he saw the pained expression on the other's face.

In response, Miki drew a small envelope from his pocket and held it out between them, seal-side up. "This came to the student council's box. Touga said I should give it to you, said it's your turn. . . ."

But Quatre knew what it was before he could say anything, and it filled him with a sense of foreboding.

The seventh-grader also seemed troubled as he confirmed, "From End of the World."

Quatre snatched it from him, anger suddenly flaring up inside him. He tore the card from it, scanning the short message on it, his lips pressed tight together. "I don't want to do this," he said as he read over it a second time. A third. "I really don't."

"I'm sorry," Miki said, and meant it. It hadn't been easy for him either, when he first found out when he would be dueling. He had known the time would come eventually, but at the same time a part of him had hoped with all he had that it wouldn't. "If it's any consolation," he tried, "I know how you feel. I was reluctant to enter the duel when my time came. But . . ."

"But?" Quatre echoed.

Miki looked down. "In the end, I wanted to. I'm not exactly sure how it happened, but I knew I had to. For a . . . a je ne sais quoi. My shining thing."

He knew he wasn't making much sense. He saw the blank expression on Quatre's face as his upperclassman slowly deciphered his meaning. "I don't have anything like that," Quatre said quietly. His gaze dropped to his hand that held the card in a vise grip, to the silver shackle on his ring finger. He shut his eyes. "Not anymore. And furthermore—" He raised his voice again. "—I won't let this school or this End of the World person or people or—or whatever it is get to me and make me think I feel things I don't."

Miki shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"I'll have to refuse," Quatre said with determination, as much to himself as the other. "I don't want to duel. Give it to someone who really wants it. Isn't that enough?" A ragged sigh escaped his lips and he met Miki's sympathetic stare. "Isn't there something I can do?"

Miki hadn't the heart to tell him it was futile.

In the tower, the bells tolled noon.

It took a little asking around, but he found the student council president, Touga Kiryuu. That elegant young man was sitting by himself in the sun, immersed in an old, worn copy of Catullus as though to mock Quatre. He looked up when he saw the two approaching him, a serene smile on his lips that didn't waver, even at what came next.

Skipping any pretense of greeting, Quatre tossed the card onto the table in front of him, the date and time of his duel in the neat, plain print of an invitation staring up at the president. Bringing up his left hand so that Touga wouldn't miss it, he yanked the ring from his finger and slammed it down with a dull clunk on top of the card. There was a sharp intake of breath as Miki started behind him. The matching rose seals on the ring and card seemed dangerously incongruous with the hasty manner in which they had been discarded.

"What's this?" Touga asked with unfazed calm and even amusement as he tucked a lock of red hair behind his ear.

"I'm resigning," Quatre said. "I don't want anything to do with the student council anymore. You can suspend me if you want, for breaking the rules."

"Don't you think you're being a bit rash?"

"Not at all. I've never been more sure about anything."

"I've heard that before." The president sighed, allowing his smile to drop. "You knew when you chose to join the council that the duels were part of the arrangement. Part of the duties that went along with the honor of wearing the rose seal. Why back out now, just when it's your turn?"

"Because," Quatre said, hearing the words Miki had spoken to him just minutes before echoed in his own voice, "because I didn't actually think my time would come. I only agreed to it with that belief."

Touga lowered his eyes, nodding slowly in contemplation. "You know this complicates things."

"I am aware of that, yes. And I apologize."

Touga snickered at that. Then he looked up again, catching the other's eyes with a gaze so intense for a moment it seemed he was trying to shake Quatre, to test how much he believed in his own supposed convictions.

But, jaw firm, Quatre only stared resolutely back.

"You surprise me," Touga said. "With your skill on the fencing strip, your enthusiasm for the bout—you make winning look so effortless, Mr. Winner—I thought you would have jumped on the opportunity to be in a real duel."

"Pardon my cynicism," Quatre said, "but everyone here seems to treat this real duel like a game."

"Isn't everything a game?" Touga countered. "Isn't survival a game? Perhaps it follows that the higher the stakes, the more the competition must remove themselves from the severity of it. To cope." Despite the pretentiousness of his words, his tone lacked passion. Only a statement of fact. "The stakes are extremely high."

"I know. The Rose Bride. Eternity. The power to revolutionize the world."

Touga nodded.

"I don't believe it," Quatre added. "I don't believe those are things that can be traded so lightly. Even if I did, I wouldn't want them. Not that way. I certainly don't want a bride for a trophy, someone I hardly know, with no choice or say in the matter. I didn't sign on for that."

"Then what did you sign on for?"

There was silence on the patio save for the earthy hum of summer as Quatre thought it over. "To make a difference," he finally said. "To represent my class and its interests. I do believe in the idea of revolution. But if I'm to revolutionize anything, I will do it my own way. With no help from End of the World."

Touga didn't seem to be paying attention. He picked up the ring from where Quatre had deposited it, turning it over between his fingers, his own ring glinting on his long-boned hand. He leaned forward and placed it on the table in front of Quatre, and the tenth-grader started. "Take it," Touga said. "It was a gift after all."

"I won't duel," Quatre began again, but Touga's nod stopped him.

"Find a second," he offered. "Don't look so surprised, Mr. Winner. I do find your intentions admirable, but someone has to attend this duel. That's the rule. All you have to do is find someone willing to take your place before the allotted time arrives."

"But I don't know anyone," Quatre said hopelessly. Anyone who would take on such a heavy burden for him, at least. Nor could he wish it on anyone.

Perhaps, he thought, that was what Miki meant when he had said in the end he had wanted to duel. The alternative wasn't very reassuring. Absently he picked up the ring, its familiar weight materializing the great weight he felt in his heart.

"Relax," said the president as he turned back to his poems. "You have a whole week."

In the silence of the student council building, an old elevator rattled slowly through the bright sunlight, carrying shadowy figures to the top floor.

If it cannot break its egg's shell, a chick will die without being born.
We are the chick; the world is our egg. If we do not crack the world's shell, we will die without being born.
Smash the world's shell—
For the revolution of the world!

The scene: a large balcony overlooking the track and field, the dueling forest in the distance. One round table surrounded by ornate chairs sits in the center, on which today rests a magnificently massive arrangement of fragrant Easter lilies. Student council president Touga sits at this table, and young genius Miki and fencing captain Juri join him, the latter keeping a safe, contemplative distance away. The former takes the card that has come attached to the arrangement.

Juri: Another message from End of the World?

Miki: The next appointed dueling time is eight o'clock in the evening, next Friday. Forecast calls for more sun and blue skies. Light winds are expected out of the southwest, bringing with them a wave of high pressure. A burn-ban might have to be instituted.

Juri: And whose turn is it this time?

Miki: One transfer student by the name of Quatre Winner, tenth grade. Age sixteen. Blood type—

Juri [turning]: Quatre Winner? You mean the Quatre Winner in my club?

Touga: Do you know of any others?

The two young men have taken to building a house with florist cards. Giant wreaths of lilies and white carnations and trailing white freesia have been set up on tripods behind them.

Miki: With his experience on the strip, he has the potential to return the Rose Bride to the student council.

Touga: End of the World seems to have a soft spot for transfer students.

Miki: And his name seems auspicious, too.

Touga [wistfully]: Too bad he's refused the invitation.

With a flick of distaste, a single bloom falls from Juri's hand.

Juri: Refused? [She sneezes.] Is he really such a coward then?

Touga: It takes a great deal of courage to keep refusing something you know you deserve.

Juri: Hmph. It takes more courage to face your fears than to run away from them.

The arrangement seems to have taken a liking to Touga so that he must constantly brush the blooms away from his face, distracting him from his card house. The air around the three is beginning to smell so sweet it is beginning to smell rancid.

Touga: And how would you describe your relationship with Mr. Winner, Miss Captain? Would you care to know what he thinks of your fencing?

Miki's stopwatch clicks.

Miki [reading from a card]: 'Juri Arisugawa is overbearing on the strip, allows verbal threats and physical contact and other inappropriate behaviors that mar the respectability of fencing and the reputation of this school.' That's what I heard him telling the eighth-grade girls, anyway.

Juri: Why should I [sneeze] care what he thinks? [Sneeze.] That anal-retentive [sneeze] goody two-shoes—

Miki leans forward in interest, florist card in his raised hand.

Miki: The truth comes out!

Juri [defensively]: I'm not jealous or any—[sneeze]—thing! All I'm saying is he makes too much of a fuss over propriety. It's not healthy.

Touga: Ah, yes. Propriety.

Touga has plucked the offending bloom and peeled its petals back like a banana. The naked sex organs tremble in the open air. Juri sneezes again.

Touga: Someone must be talking about you, Juri.

Juri [sniffling]: It's just the air pressure.

Touga: Well, it will all turn out in the end. He knows he has a week to choose a second.

Miki [to himself]: The letters are only one-way. There's no way End of the World can tell whether he duels himself or someone takes his place. Speaking of which, what about that girl I saw you bouting with yesterday, Juri?

Touga: The question is, will he? What makes him think he's any different from the rest of the duelists? Just because he still considers himself a transfer student. A representative.

Juri: Dorothy Catalonia. She's good, but she took herself out of the running last semester.

Touga: Then again, how many times have we heard duelists attempt to deny their responsibilities? Try to lose on purpose, get it over with quickly. Right, Miki?

Miki: I worry about him. He's not the kind to treat something like this lightly. Can't say I blame him. You know, Juri, you're in his class.

Touga: In the end, they always come up with some excuse for going through with it. Their motives change, and they realize that maybe what they thought wasn't so important to them really is worth fighting to keep. Some might call it destiny, but in reality it takes much more strength of character than that. It takes a noble, a beautiful spirit. To revolutionize the world.

Juri: Are you saying you want me to keep an eye on him, Miki?

Miki: I want you to help him out.

Juri: Me?

Touga: That's what I find most alluring.

Juri [to Miki, sardonically]: He's not talking about Quatre anymore, is he?

On the table stands a mansion made of florist cards. It is a U-shaped building with a delicate tower and a little archway between the two parallel halls. Gently Miki lowers the last card into place, but before he can set it down, the mansion crumbles under his hand.

From his angle, the school looked like some exotic city hanging in the sky. Gothic arches, Romanesque colonnades, a triangular Bridge of Sighs and Baroque ovals and scrolls were like scenes on postcards. Everywhere hard black-and-white lines. Soaring lines. A fantastical Venice all squashed together, all monochrome. Complete with the exposed bones of giant ancient gondolas lining the entrance. An elephant graveyard of mankind's greatest architectural achievement, suspended in that endless blue summer sky.

The coach gave Trowa the okay and he relaxed, letting his legs fall forward to the ground and pushing himself back upright. The handstand was the very last task in the seemingly endless list of physical ability assessment he had to suffer as a new student. The plus side: It allowed him the perfect opportunity to disappear after classes. He nodded as the coach read him his results. No surprise there. Physical education had always been one of his strong suits, especially gymnastics.

Wakaba spotted him and called his name. No, not his name, he remembered: Triton's. "Wow, you look so different," was the first thing she said to him, and he found himself feeling more than a little self-conscious as she took in the image of him in shorts and a T-shirt. She was dressed down herself and carried a duffel bag over her shoulder. "Are you in track?"

"No," he told her.

"Oh. Too bad." He could have guessed it by the other girls warming up on the grass, but she told him she was anyway. Then she gave him a weird look. "You know, someone's looking for you."

"Yeah? Tall, blond girl? Strange eyebrows?"

"Yeah." Wakaba seemed proud to be trading such sensitive information with him. "Said she was going to take you to fencing club to show you off. Seemed awfully bossy if you ask me."

"Which way did she go?"

"Last I saw, toward the art studio."

Trowa smiled. He liked this girl. "Thanks for the heads-up," he said.

Earning him a conspiratorial wink. "Any time."

The fencing club had decided to move back inside today, the novelty of the summer heat beginning to wear. The slight give of the pad beneath Quatre's feet gave the bout a familiar feel, recalling so many hours of practice in a gymnasium that always had a certain gymnasium smell to it. It was his turf. And the gangly young man standing before him, no doubt from the middle school, knew it too. His en garde stance lacked a certain confidence.

This would be over in no time.

The boy lunged. Quatre parried, touched on a riposte. One down.

The next time, Quatre took the offensive. The other boy blocked his first attack, but missed his second by a centimeter. Two down.

On the next go, Quatre momentarily toyed with the idea of letting his opponent touch him once or twice, just so his efforts were not a total loss. He could sense the crowd's expectant eyes on him, however, and a smirk came to his lips beneath the mask. As he parried, he slid his own blade along the length of the other, feeling his way down his opponent's sword like his foil was an extension of his own nerves. With the slightest twitch of his wrist, he executed a croise. The onlookers applauded the grace of the move, the line of his body that showcased the finesse with which he had pulled it off.

Touché. Three down. It was just too easy.

The last two touches came all too soon, and the boys shook hands, the younger stumbling over his congratulations. Quatre imagined him to be a bright shade of red beneath his mask.

Pulling off his own and taking in a deep breath, he made his way to the benches lining the wall where Juri sat, presiding like a king over the games of knights and jesters. She smiled at him as though she were sharing in his victory. And Quatre would find no word disapproving of his absolute win from her direction. No one to say he was being unnecessarily cruel anywhere in the gym. A quick glance around would be all it took to see the admiration bordering on longing on the spectators' faces.

Quatre did not glance around, however. Instead he opened his water bottle, and closed his eyes as he tipped his head back and took a long, refreshing drink. "How did your exam go?" Juri asked him.

He wiped a bit of water from the corner of his mouth, smiling. "I'm here, aren't I?"

At that the doors had opened between them, and he could all but feel Juri relaxing beside him on the bench with the parry of wit. "I heard you've turned down the invitation to duel," she said in a more familiar register. "I half expected you'd be off studying or moping, or anything else right now. You know, it being so soon after receiving your card. . . ."

He shrugged. "Why should I? My refusal has nothing to do with my love for fencing."

"That's true, I suppose," she admitted. "It's too bad, though. You would have been excellent."

"Too bad for whom? Me or the student council?" The answer was obvious to both, and his chuckle was almost a wince as he leaned back. "Are you also going to try convincing me I've made the wrong decision? Because Touga already tried."

"He obviously didn't try hard enough."

"I'm merely a class representative," Quatre reminded her quietly. "I don't deserve this responsibility. No, I suppose I don't really want to quit after all, but I do have enough knowledge of the limits of this place by now to know I can't be forced into participating. I'm not going to be bullied into thinking I owe this End of the World anything, either."

"You still owe me a solo."

Quatre glanced lazily over at the fencing captain out of the corner of his eye. He had promised to play her a piece on his violin, after she dared him to prove his talk hadn't been mere bragging.

She brightened. "But I'd settle for a match instead, if that's what you'd prefer."

"No thanks. I feel sore just thinking about it."

"I would like to challenge you. If I may."

Quatre looked up in surprise at the new voice. Standing before him was the tall, lean shape of a young man about his age in a white fencing jacket, foil in hand. He had a deceptively humble posture that was strangely familiar—like his voice. Yet Quatre was sure that he had never seen nor fought the young man before.

There were always new additions to the club, he told himself. Quatre only regretted he couldn't see his opponent's face: The young man was already wearing his mask. That was a little odd. It didn't seem polite to hide your face from the one you've just challenged.

"I don't remember seeing you around here," Juri said beside him, the fire of a fight in her eyes. She must have been thinking the same thing. "You're not a member of the club?"

"No," the mysterious young man said. He had a sad, serious voice, Quatre noted. "I just transferred. But I was in my old school's fencing club, and I would like to join yours. If you think I'm good enough, that is."

She chuckled. "You sound pretty sure of yourself. Maybe you should have asked me to bout—"

"No." Quatre stood abruptly, cutting her off. And also to see if, bringing his face inches from his opponent's, he could incite any emotion in this stoic stranger. But the stranger moved not one muscle. "I accept," Quatre said. "But first, whom, may I ask, will I be fighting?"

"You can call me Triton Bloom," his opponent said.

"What?" Quatre blinked. "Bloom?" He knew he had heard that name before. If only he could hear the bearer's voice more clearly. . . .

"It's a common name," said the other in dismissal. They made their way to the center strip which Miki and his opponent had just vacated. "Winner, on the other hand, is not."

Quatre smiled. "So you've heard of me? Then you must know I don't go easy on anyone, even beginners."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"We'll play to five touches," Quatre said. And when there was no argument, added quietly, "Good luck," as he lowered his facemask.

"May the best man win," said Triton.

They saluted and assumed their positions, and Quatre found himself breathing a little heavier than usual. No doubt it was because he did not yet know what to expect from the stranger, whose en garde stance exuded power. Take your time, he told himself. Feel him out.

Then he lunged.

Triton Bloom parried easily and attacked, taking the place of aggressor immediately. Quatre was forced to make a quick retreat to defend himself. He noted the other's physical strength, the force with which he swung his sword, his confidence bordering on over-confidence. Perhaps it could be used against him.

Triton wasn't paying much attention to his outside line. With a semicircular parry, Quatre attacked him there, under the arm.

Noting the touch, Triton backed away, back to the en garde line. His sportsmanship was commendable, Quatre thought, but it took more than a good attitude to stay in the game.

Triton must have known that. Quatre could all but see the wheels turning in his head as Triton waited for him to make the first move. Or perhaps the light batting of his blade against Quatre's was to distract him, like a magician's waving hand does from the real trick.

Suddenly he aimed for far outside, and like a fool Quatre went for it—cursing himself as he did so—blocking the attack but leaving himself open when Triton charged. Quatre sidestepped as he parried, and Triton stumbled past him, receiving a poke in the ribs from the button of Quatre's foil as he turned.

"You're pretty strong," Quatre observed, meaning it as a compliment and warning both. Triton maneuvered the blade quickly, but too much reliance on physical strength seemed to be affecting his point control. "But you move your arms too much. Who was your teacher?"

Triton didn't flatter him with a response. He merely got up and back into position, ready for more.

After a breath, Quatre attacked once again. But this time, when Triton counterattacked, he scored a high touch. Quatre passed it off as luck—his recklessness was bound to produce results sooner or later.

But then, again. Same spot. It couldn't have been mere luck. He was leaving holes in his guard, Quatre realized. This Triton Bloom was a fast thinker. It was hard to tell what he was thinking through the blank mask, and even his body kept its poker face.

Twice more they went back to their positions, and twice more Triton scored a touch. It didn't matter what Quatre did, it seemed, Triton found some way through his attacks. Each time he seemed more at ease on the strip, more confident with his blade, and each time the bout stretched longer. Quatre managed to score one more, but it didn't seem to matter. With four touches against his three, he found himself being pressed back toward the warning line.

Desperate, he waited for the right moment and feigned outside, planning to catch Triton on the inside line when he went for the bait. It was Quatre's signature trick, and it almost always fooled his opponent.

But he was shocked to find Triton had deflected his move before he even delivered it, completely ignoring his feint. Almost as if he knew what Quatre was going to do next—as if he could read his mind.

It threw Quatre off. His next attack was sloppy, and as Triton parried and their foils entwined, an appropriately placed flick of Triton's blade sent Quatre's sliding across the floor.

The sound of the thin metal rattling in the suddenly silent room froze him. Then he felt the button point of Triton's foil poking his sternum. That made five.

"Not bad," Quatre muttered between breaths. His pulse was racing. "Not bad at all. Congratulations. I don't think there's any reason the club wouldn't want you now."

There was no response. His opponent didn't move, and he dared not either. The pressure increased on his chest. The foil arched under the stress, and Quatre vaguely wondered if it would snap first or pierce his heart despite the button and the padding between them. He wondered if the vibrations of his heartbeat could be felt through the handle, giving him away to his adversary. It was awkward.

Worse: humiliating. Quatre had already been defeated. Since he had arrived at Ohtori, there had been countless opponents whose skills matched and even outmatched his own, but no other defeat riled him like this one. No other defeat felt so absolute and . . . deserved. "How did you do it?"

"It wasn't that hard," Triton answered flatly. He didn't seem affected by the exercise at all. "It helped that you used the same feint to the outside line. I was counting on that, I must admit."

Quatre started. The same . . . "How do you know about that?"

Triton lowered his blade finally. "You'd be surprised how much you can tell about a person by their behavior on the strip," he said. Why did those words sound so familiar? "Their personalities. Their doubts. You, for instance, still can't bear to lose, no matter how well you take your defeats on the outside. So you trick your opponent just when he starts to figure you out."

"So what? It's not against the rules—"

"It's the way of war. C'est la guerre—that's what you tell them. Isn't that right, Quatre?"

Quatre started. The way the Bloom boy said his name—it went to straight his knees as though it had been whispered lustily in his ear, it was so jarringly intimate. "I—" he began, but didn't know what to say. Triton had hit it dead on, a target Quatre had never given more than a passing thought. How could it be this stranger knew so much about him and acted so familiar, as if they'd known each other longer than these past five or so minutes? How could he dare act so familiar?

But a stronger suspicion nagged at Quatre, though it went against everything he thought possible.

"Take off your mask."

For a moment, Triton seemed to hesitate. But only a moment, and then he reached up to undo his mask. Slipping his fingers under the bib, he pulled it off in one fluid motion—

And Quatre's breath caught in his throat.